


the bit of me still at sea

by Kt_fairy



Series: let the river rush in [9]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxiety, Established Relationship, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Personal Growth, Victorian Attitudes, do not copy to another site, naval stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: The Admiralty allowed James three days to get his affairs in order before he was to report to Portsmouth and the fast ship bound for Gibraltar where Hibernia would meet him. He could have been dispatched as soon as he had received his orders; it would have been well within the Admiralty's rights to do so, in fact Francis and James had both expected it, but as it was they had been given time. And plenty of it, Francis had thought - but what did he know?
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: let the river rush in [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458220
Comments: 22
Kudos: 68





	the bit of me still at sea

**Author's Note:**

> This goes directly on from the end of ['everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candlelight'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21832474) and some of the themes do continue on in the background. So you can read that again if you like ;P
> 
> I have been writing this since December, and it has gone through three re-writes and about four endings. The patience and support of the wonderful MsKingBean89 helped me get it done, so thanks to her for that and for always seeing the thing's I miss.

The Admiralty allowed James three days to get his affairs in order before he was to report to Portsmouth and the fast ship bound for Gibraltar where _Hibernia_ would meet him. He could have been dispatched as soon as he had received his orders; it would have been well within the Admiralty's rights to do so, in fact Francis and James had both expected it, but as it was they had been given time. And plenty of it, Francis had thought - but what did he know?

It was the afternoon before they were set to leave for Portsmouth, which Francis had thought might be spent quietly, with James looking over sea charts to re-familiarise himself with the Mediterranean. Instead the Coningham’s London home was all up in the air as James hastily packed away those belongings he was not taking with him while Daisy shut up the rooms, Francis obediently doing as he was asked and mostly staying out of the way. 

Le Vesconte had visited the night before, visibly upset to see his friend leave and mournful of the fact that James would not be here as he began courting his Miss Campbell ( _I am sure her sister despises me, and I will have absolutely no one sound to go to for advice! You shall return to find me married to Miss Campbell's grandmother!),_ and with James meeting the Coninghams early the next day so they might see him off properly, maybe things had become a little tight without noticing. But still, even with his own business to attend to, and the meeting of the Astronomical Society he had spoken at, Francis had managed to be packed up and ready.

“James, I must insist that I leave this house when you do,” Francis shouted through the half open drawing room door (hoping his voice was carrying up to the bedrooms rather than down to the ground floor) as he parsed through the letters and instructions James had left piled up on a side table. 

“William will not mind!” was called down the stairs. “Elizabeth would insist upon you staying as long as you pleased! They like you! Besides, one cannot kick a Sir out of his lodgings.”

“I will be leaving of my own accord. I can stay with Ross again before I travel to Ireland. Lady Ann has been asking, apparently…” Francis stopped shouting abruptly when the door was shoved fully open and James strode into the drawing room with his arms full of gold braid and boxes, kicking his skirts out because he had decided all this must be done in a blue striped day dress.

“Yes,” James huffed as he dropped to the floor. He shot a glare at the windows that had been flung open to the dull, damp, late September day to give the room one last airing, and dragged over a shawl before he began sorting through his sea chest. “But you do not have to run up to Oxfordshire you know.”

“Yes, but it would be unseemly with it being just Daisy and I, you know that. I would rather have her go to Brighton with the family _she works for_. It will ease her load of work also - “ Francis explained as he began pacing. He shoved his hand into his pocket so he could turn the thin band of metal he had tucked there around and around before finally stopping to look over the drawing room that was so very lived in compared to the pristine room it had been when Francis had first arrived. 

This place, this elegant half used house James’ foster brother had all but given them, was the most at home Francis had ever felt on land - even with his draws still being half empty of clothes (but then again, so were James'). Francis no longer wished to run to the sea when a heavy mood came on, finally able to accept that the sea’s absence was not the root of his melancholy, and that her presence had ceased to make him happy at some unplotted point in the Antarctic ocean.

Francis had been changed by the Passage and by James’ presence. Maybe he knew himself better now perhaps, knew that it was no stain of Irish impetuousness to feel things as deeply as he did, and was no longer the sort of man who would watch sadness creep towards him and do nothing about it.

“I would not like to fall into ‘morbing’ as you like to say,” Francis said, thinking perhaps that this tone was a little flippant when James tipped his head back to look him in the eye. “I do not think I shall, but I will not give myself the chance.”

James regarded him a moment, a tendon working in the smooth line of his throat before he nodded. “I understand,” he said softly, holding a hand out to Francis who crossed the room to take it, nudging a footstool over as he did so he could lower his old, creaking bones down to sit by James. “I do not want you to feel like this has not been your home. I wish you to know that you are welcome and well liked by my own family, such as it is.”

“I do feel that it has been my home, and I do know. Very well.”

“ _Has been,_ ” James murmured perching his elbow on Francis’ knee as he laced their fingers together. “I suppose this is the rest of our lives now, is it not? Disappearing off around the world.

“Yes,” Francis agreed, noting the single lock of James’ hair that had fallen against his cheek and deciding not to tuck it back from his face. “I am glad this happened suddenly, so I have even less of a chance to be sentimental about it.” 

James quirked an eyebrow, glancing down at Francis’ pocket before meeting his eyes once more. “I am aware that if you in fact have nothing in your pocket then that was a rather bold flirtation.”

“I do not think it would have been your very boldest,” Francis said, leaning back so he could reach into his pocket. He had spent what time he had mulling over this, trying to decide if it was too much of a gesture, or if it would be perceived as a hurried, less heartfelt one than it was. Francis might have handed over his aunt’s Claddagh ring in due time, and after the conversation he and James had about how they thought of their togetherness, and that towering word _wife_ , then the due time could have been closer. Maybe even this close, but Francis would never know that now. “If you would permit me to be overly sentimental?”

“Sailor’s prerogative,” James whispered as he looked down at the ring Francis was holding in the palm of his hand. “This is an Irish tradition is it not?" James said, reaching cautiously for the ring as if unsure if he should take it. "My aunt wore one as a wedding ring, given by my uncle," he looked up to meet Francis' eyes. "It is important.”

“It is an old heirloom from the less Anglo side of my family.” Francis was surprised that James recognised a Claddagh, and pleased that this moment would not have to be stretched to unbearable lengths by his having to explain it.

James nodded as he half closed his hand about the ring, then tilted his head in affected coyness. “I suppose I shall just _have_ to go looking through the bazaars for the finest damask silks now we are to be engaged.”

He was lightening the moment, no doubt thinking to cushion Francis from his past disappointments and hurt in this area, but it only made Francis more keenly aware of them. “It doesn’t have to be for love,” he grumbled. “It can be worn or given sign of close friendship, brotherhood, holding another dear.”

“I will be happy to be held dear by you,” James said, looking down at the well cared for ring in his palm. “I shall find a chain and wear it about my neck, if that is agreeable?”

“Very much so,” Francis sighed. Later he would feel happy, maybe even indulge in a bit of giddiness, but for the moment he was only glad that it was done with. He watched James slip the thin gold band onto the smallest finger of his left hand, the heart pointing towards his wrist, and could not help his pleased smile. James made a point of not noticing his reaction, checking the ring would not slip off before he turned to look for one of the boxes he had brought down from his bedroom. 

“We were of one mind, it seems, but my sentiment looks to be far less elegant and meaningful than yours,” James said as he held out his gold etched silver watch on its delicate chain, a thing that Francis had only ever seen him wear when they had visited a royal palace or something of the like. "I always lose the blasted things anyway. Three in a year once, if you can believe such carelessness of me! My mot - my aunt gifted it to me when I made lieutenant and I have never dared take it aboard a ship," James said primly, anxiousness given away by his rapid speech. "I realise that purchasing one for you might have been the more gallant thing to do, and I would never cite lack of time as an excuse, but all this ever does is sit about unseen so I would rather you carry it about with you. To… to think of me. Maybe."

“Thank you. I shall take great care of it,” Francis promised, running his thumb over the careful spray of floral engravings on the lid, turning it over to glance at the inscription on the back that was obviously one of maternal regard that he wondered at how James could entrust it to him 

“And…” James cleared his throat, fingers fidgeting in his lap. “Know that I always wind my watch at eight bells when aboard ship. So, if you were to, then we should do it at the same time?” He winced. “Is that far too romantic and ridiculous a notion?”

“Not at all,” Francis assured, ducking his head to kiss James when he swayed in close.

“I did consider telling you I wound it before bed,” James whispered, a glint in his eye. “But I thought such implications of thinking of one another at such a time might be too saucy.”

“For you?”

”I am a flag captain,” James tossed his hair with a flourish, making a point of smoothing his hands over his pooled skirts. “I am too respectable to be saucy!” he declared, smiling rakishly when Francis laughed.

“You laugh sir? How dare you sir!” James harrumphed in what was a rather good impression of Sir John Ross. “Merriment has no place in the service!”

“And shown to a man of your rank, also.”

“Indeed sir!” James thundered, his smile slipping slightly as he watched Francis laugh. He sat up, the gold on his finger a cool brush against Francis’ cheek as he cupped his face in his hands. “I shall miss you horribly,” he admitted quietly. “Not all the time, I know. Be too busy with gold braid and heavy dress uniforms, and showing the flag to the Turk and the Russian. Yet in the quiet moments when I am free of it all, I shall think about you.”

“I did not think you would forget me entirely, even when you are having great fun bellowing orders from the quarterdeck."

“I do not bellow, I shout! And some men do you know, forget. Either to ease the call of home or because they do not care for it,” he kissed Francis, more a brush of his lips than anything, before taking his hand once more. “I shall _not_ forget you.”

Francis knew that James' words had another meaning, but was not entirely sure what that was. "And I shall not forget you," he said, which won him a gentle smile as if that assurance had not been needed.

James shifted, leaning sideways into Francis who tucked his arm around his waist. He held James close, basking for a moment in his warmth and solid build, the faint sea-salt smell of his skin and the floral makassar brushed through his soft hair. 

"I should have started packing up sooner," James sighed as he tugged on the bottom edge of his bodice. "Then I could sit in the calm quiet of your company a little longer. Only I would rather be in flurry than think on who I must be until next May at least."

"This has changed nothing." Francis murmured, stopping James' fingers from picking at the darts and fitting their hands together. "You will be a fine captain. That has always been so, and always will be, for you have not become someone else by _living_ as we do. You have not changed," Francis pressed a kiss to James' untidy hair. "If you begin to get softhearted and sentimental, then what hope do I have?"

"Quite right. Doing the reputation of the Navy a disservice! We shall have to have a spirited time tonight to make amends."

"That is one thing I will be glad of; I shall finally be able to live as sedate a life as my age demands,” Francis grumbled, and James dropped his head to Francis’ shoulder and laughed. 

* ***** *

_'Do not let Ann corner you_ ' Ross had whispered when he had ushered Francis through his front door, not relinquishing the firm hold he had on Francis even when the dogs and children swirling about their legs almost tripped him. 

The lady herself had appeared on the stairs before Francis could ask why, her yellow skirts and luxurious black curls bouncing when she hurried to greet him with as much warmth as she always had.

He had been surprised when Ross had first told him, while staring into the bottom of a glass of brandy, that the young Miss Coulman had stolen his heart. Francis had not thought his friend to be the sort who would be swept up by youth and beauty like some men were; but the lady was bright, possessing a determination that outdid even Ross', and was kindness itself, treating Francis like a friend even before Ross had asked for her hand. 

He had no earthly idea why or what she would wish to ‘corner’ him about, but was given little time to find out. Ross soon had Francis coming here or going there with him, looking at this and wanting his opinions on that, all with an obedient dog and an inquisitive child or two in their wake. He had always been energetic, and a life upon land had done nothing to dent that. In fact it rather suited him, Francis thought on the third day of this, noting the ever contented smile on Ross’ face, and wondered if it would ever manage to suit him quite so well. 

“You look so rested and well outside of London, old man. It does me good to see you in such a way,” Ross had said apropos of nothing one damp, overcast morning, keeping a weather eye on his white smocked daughters running about between the trees as he went on to comment - “You have that contented look about you, as if you are a man who is being well loved.”

“That might only be the effect of the complete absence of whiskey,” Francis had said lightly, knowing that would not fool Ross for an instant.

“The absence of one thing, and the abundance of another,” Ross had said slyly, grinning at the burning blush Francis could feel on his cheeks before he had called his oldest daughter back into sight of the path, allowing the topic to drop discreetly.

Francis was not surprised that Ross had eventually seen whatever change had been wrought in him since his returned to London over a year ago. They had seen one another at dinners and such in the meantime of course, and even though Francis was not as uncomfortable as he had once been around _people_ he was not fully cured of his shyness, nor his distaste for society, too aware of himself while trying not to be too aware of James. Out here on Ross' country estate Francis did not wind himself so tightly nor hide behind a veneer of moroseness. He could just be James Ross' friend, and had not thought that being parted from James could still have him so obviously contented that Ross might stumble upon a truth Francis did not want him to see.

It was not that he thought Ross would be cruel if he knew, or would banish Francis from his life in disgust, but their friendship was so old and dear to them both that Francis did not know how he would ever dare risk it.

It guilted him to withhold the cause of his happiness from Ross, but his weeks in Oxfordshire were filled with so much untaxing company and activity that there was not much opportunity to brood on that, or to begin to become melancholy about James. 

Francis thought about him not in the quiet idle moments, but when the children were being boisterous or Ann was showing him her rose garden. Or when he surprised both Ross and himself by repeating James’ own opinions when it came to Locke's reasoning's on a person’s Natural Rights and the structure of government. 

James would have been amused and greatly pleased to hear Francis, who would not have been able to name a modern philosopher for love nor money two years ago, speak of those things, and that evening Francis had added it to the letter he was slowly writing to James. 

Then, upon considering what he wrote, Francis had felt rather foolish, and that brought on a fit of the brown study that almost had him burning the whole letter. What would James care about Francis’ pottering about in a place he had never been? The man was captaining the flagship of the grand Mediterranean fleet; he would be engaged in adjusting to his duties and his crew, re-familiarising himself with the waters and countries where he had spent most of his youth. What interest would he have in Francis’ inelegant words about concepts that James had known from boyhood?

Winding James’ watch gave him a needed moment of distraction, and Francis managed to recover himself before he went to bed. Which, as he wrote to James the next morning while he explained what had happened in light terms, was a good sign of settling into the next half a year. (He did not tell James to not to read much into 'recover himself' as letters had a habit of not being wholly private, and smiled to himself in the knowledge that James would read the phrase as an innuendo and laugh).

Providence had her eye on Francis it seemed, as the afternoon post that day contained an envelope bearing all the usual marks of naval post with James’ distinctive handwriting taking up most of the front. It was a sudden and not unpleasant reminder of when he used to receive letters almost every other day from James while they were recuperating after their return to England. How the shaky handwriting and pinched content had smoothed and gained energy until he could almost hear James’ voice recounting things that Francis was still half sure were made up. 

It was the same now; James’ bright character coming through his words so clearly as Francis read them by the rain dappled window in the uncluttered parlour. It was rather conducive to a fit of melancholy, reading such a letter - safely written as if to a friend rather than a lover, which was something Francis would rather read, and James write, that a torrent of endearments - to the insistent sounds of rain, but Francis was too busy smiling at James' turns of phrase and the descriptions of the _Hibernia_ and its crew, and how Admiral Parker still terrified him.

He almost missed the click of the door and the rustle of skirts that announced Lady Ann's arrival. Francis made to stand but she bade him sit as always, swirling past him to sit on the edge of the chair nearest to the window.

"Forgive me for neglecting you on such a dull day Frank, but James and the boys were insisting on going out to splash in puddles. He says it is good for boys to be out in all weathers."

"It is quite alright, I am keeping out of the way for that exact reason."

She smiled knowingly and motioned with a bow of her head to the letter Francis had in his hand. "And to read your letters, I hope I have not disturbed you.”

“Of course not.”

“May I enquire if it is from Captain Fitzjames?"

"It is."

"My husband thinks highly of him, and I am glad to be in agreement."

"He is indeed a fine officer and a good man. I am glad to hear from him."

"To be apart after so long in one another’s company, and the strains you shared, must be something of a wrench I should imagine,” Ann stated kindly as she took up her needlepoint, and Francis laid the pages of the letter on his thigh to try and disguise what his expression might be. 

He would not have called it a wrench even if he were able to speak honestly. The Navy was always going to call upon James at some point, Francis had been prepared for that, and all those times when he had left loved ones behind for distant oceans had worn down the very worst of the sting from separation. 

“I am rather used to him, yes,” Francis admitted, showing Ann a smile. 

“I hope I did not embarrass you by saying so.”

“Of course not. I am not embarrassed to admit to the dearness of a friend.”

“I said this exact thing to James you know,” Ann shook her head, ringlets swaying about her long face. “As soon as he told me you intended to visit, I said to him how glad I was. _Firstly_ because you are always most convivial company and a dear friend to us all, and secondly because I would hate for you to be alone and missing dear Sir James Fitzjames, who has become your great friend and companion.” She paused, tilting her head as she dropped her hazel eyes to the letter once more. 

Francis felt a cold thrill go down his back as she glanced to the closed door before leaning forward slightly, as terrifying in that moment as an iceberg rearing up unnoticed out of the fog. “James told me not to say anything to you about it, thinks it counts as a particularly _sisterly_ form of ‘managing’, whereas I say it is friendly concern," she sighed, then shrugged as he went back to her embroidery. “But then again I am no sailor.”

Francis almost sagged in relief, and laid a hand on James’ letter to try and calm himself as he spoke. “I have many sisters, and I can assure you that was far more tactful and considerate than ‘sisterly managing’.”

“Quite right. I knew you would see it,” Ann said with a firm nod, falling silent as she finished forming a perfect spray of daffodils out of nothing more than cotton thread. “You do not mind if I am frank, do you?”

"If you are to be Frank, then shall I be Ann?"

She shook her head at the pun, shooting Francis a look even as she smiled. "And why should you not? James might notice the difference though," she said, blushed, then laughed. "No Francis. Might I be honest?"

“Of course.”

“My husband is a man of pleasant moods, but he is always lifted further when you write or visit, _Frank_. He would not have you know this, but I feel I do not overstep to say that he became most anxious and frayed when you were a year late in emerging from the passage. As was I.”

“I do not wish to cause concern, even though I am touched by it.”

Ann gave him a fond look and she placed her needlepoint to one side, moving to perch next to Francis on the window seat in a flounce of skirts that reminded him of his own James. 

“You were always kind to me when others thought me a silly girl caught up in the fine reputation of a handsome man,” she said in a quietly, twisting a thread around and around her fingers so rapidly Francis almost reached out to stop her. “My father's family, and a few friends also, warned me of how hard it would be with James being so far away in the southern regions for so long, and in such _danger_ , only receiving letters a few times a year. But when you did so, it was to prepare me, to give me courage, rather than to try and discourage. I do not want to embarrass you by saying so, so you need not reply, Francis. I uh…” she looked at him, and touched a hand to her pale cheek. “Oh, I might have embarrassed you anyway by speaking as I have.” 

“Ann, please,” Francis all but begged, desperate for her not to continue. “You do not need to…”

“What I wished to say is that everyone talks about ‘the life’ that involves the sea, and of course it is best to take things nobly, but we are all human are we not?” She said brightly, then touched Francis’ arm. “I do not want it to seem that I think you are melancholy, far from it. Only that your friendship with Fitzjames is obviously very fine, as is yours with my husband, and I feel it is right to feel the lack of ones we hold dear, be they spouse or friend.”

Francis nodded, feeling the truth in her words through his embarrassment, and was glad of them. He had come to know how balancing it was to be understood, to see yourself in another, and in doing now so understood that he would have to adapt his view from being the busy sailor stoically bearing the parting, to being the one left behind.

“You are being kinder to me than is warranted.”

“No more kind than you were to me, Frank,” she said with all sincerity, letting the moment rest a beat before turning to James’ letter once more. “Now, will you read aloud the letter to me. I always find it most pleasing to laugh when it is raining.“

“I will not do his eloquence justice.”

“James would accuse you of being self effacing,” she declared, and Francis was unsure which James she meant. “I wish to hear all about Gibraltar. For as soon as there is a comment about the temperament of the sea or the construction of the ship then you and my husband shall discuss those things at length and I will hear nothing of the rock, or the monkeys!”

Ross came in from the rain a little while later, letting in a blast of fresh cold air and the sound of the maids bustling the children upstairs when he opened the parlour door. He was smiling as he looked over their obvious amusement, only causing it to increase when he asked them to explain themselves and Ann tried to recount James’ tale of an incident that involved the hat of his second lieutenant, a gun carriage, one of the Gibraltar apes, and a sack of oranges.

  
  


* ***** *

Even on a calm day the North Sea was turbulent. She rolled and broke over unseen reefs, churned herself grey and threw the ships upon her about with an ease that showed just how little a thing it would be for her to smash them to pieces. 

It was the ocean Francis was used to, the crashing power that whipped up storms and winds that battered the south seas and the north Atlantic and the rolling chaos off Cape Horn, and yet it put him in mind of the Mediterranean. He had never sailed there but he knew of it’s rich, deep blue waters shimmering with the summer heat and the squalls that swirled past out of nowhere from James’ crystal clear descriptions. 

It was February now so he doubted it would be very pleasant sailing there either, but the fleet was weathering the winter in Malta, as James had said in his last letter…

“Francis. I ‘ave come upon this walk wi’ thee for the company of friendship seein’ as we ‘ave not seen the other for a good while. If yer mind is in sunnier climbs then I shall turn about!" Thomas Blanky spoke up over the stiff breeze, slowing his confident limping gait to match Francis’, which had dropped to a wandering pace. 

“My apologies, Thomas.”

“Aye. Well. If my reckonin’ is fair then yer thoughts are on prettier places than Whitby,” he threw Francis a wink, “an’ on a more sightly visage than mine, so I’ll forgive thee.”

“Whitby has its own beauty,” Francis observed, pausing to lean upon his cane as he looked down from the cliff into the steep river valley which the town clung to. Whaling port, dockyard, and where the finest jet jewellery was crafted; a swirl of varied professions that made it far from the usual dank, working seaside village stinking of fish guts. There was an elegance to it beneath the smear of whale oil and the clatter of the jewellers shops, all the buildings finely made and well kept, that old ruined Abbey presiding over it like a mast with furled sails. “More agreeable than London, that is to be sure.”

“More pleasant than welcoming arms a’ Banbridge?” 

“Yes,” Francis said shortly. His surviving siblings had been the same as always; more concerned with the goings on of the county than the rest of the word, let alone the rest of Ireland, and Francis' dreams for that month and a half over Christmas had been plagued by cowering fear and the smell of gin rather than towering ice and the scent of blood. “Much more.”

“Aye,” Thomas murmured, fishing his pipe from his pocket as he came to stand beside Francis. He rubbed at what was left of his leg before searching out a match, resting his weight against Francis while he shielded the bowl from the weather as he puffed on the tobacco. “Should bring our capt’n Fitzjames up ‘ere when he comes back. Giv’ ‘im a break from hisself. Tha' knows how those interested folk ‘ave ‘eard every tale they care te ‘ear from me, so they will not pry as they ‘ave not pried with you.”

“Except the old ice masters?”

“If ye are te carry about that there token, then ye should expect it," he said with more kindness than Francis expected. They had been in the middle of the voyage home when Thomas had realised the full truth of what Francis and James were to one another, and had reacted as evenly as could be expected. Their long friendship had done a great deal to ease what might have been a very harsh judgement ( _Good Christ Francis, of all the foolish things ye've done these past years!)_ and then, later, Thomas had rightfully laughed at him ( _Handsomest man in t’ Navy! Christ Frank, do nothin’ by ‘alves you!)_

Francis touched the pocket of his waistcoat where the watch lived and knew as soon as he did that he was only making Thomas’ point for him. One very late evening of smoking and talking Francis had, out of blind habit, taken the watch out of his pocket to wind, and Thomas had identified the source of its expensive elegance at once.

“I’d ‘ave thought e’d be more of a gold pocket watch sort.”

“He loses them too often,” Francis explained, ducking down into his scarf when the wind gusted over the cliffs.

“He’s a good lad, though. An’ I suppose ye’d ‘ave missed ‘im either way, after everythin’.”

“Of course,” Francis said, conceding no more while fully aware of the irony of standing atop a moody cliff while thinking of James. 

“Aye,” was all Thomas said again, and they stood a while in silence, watching the boats begin to slip into port.

“My Esther used te miss me when I were away,” Thomas said suddenly, voice fond and expression wistful like it always was when he spoke of Mrs Blanky - the only person on God’s earth who had ever made Thomas blush. “But she did not display it greatly, or lament it in letters an’ such. She understands the way a' life, which is most vital says I.”

“And has the inn and the children to look to.”

“Aye, a busy woman a’ means,” Thomas said proudly. “Not sayin’ when I first went te sea after we married that we did not both feel it, but ye know ‘ow it is. Practical lot sailors, but prone to romantic notions at times.”

"Yes, well…"

"Specially with newly weds an’ the like," Thomas grinned around the stem of his pipe, twinkling eyes flicking up to Francis as he adjusted the dead weight of his wooden leg. "Be a thick sea mist come ashore tonight."

Francis pulled his glare away from Thomas to peer out at the faint darkening point where the grey sea met the grey sky and grunted. "I see it."

Thomas grunted back in reply, placing his thumb over the bowl of his pipe to put it out before slipping it into his pocket. “Glad te see London has not robbed ye of yer eye.” 

“I fear time shall do that,” Francis said as they turned and began to head back down the west cliff. 

“You will not go te sea again,” Thomas stated as if he knew it for a fact already.

“I will not lead men into the ice again. I think it might kill me if I did, and I do not have the experience Fitzjames does outside of discovery. So unless calamity or war occurs, I shall not look to go, and I do not think I will be asked.”

“Well,” Thomas sighed, throwing his arm around Francis’ shoulders. “I should think we ‘av deserved the restful lives all that back pay shall give us. Especially fer _you_ , who were commanding entire fer a year. Do not think I would not notice.”

“Is that why you are smoking all my tobacco?”

“Esther would kill me if I made ye pay fer owt while ye visit,” he gave Francis a shake, laugh booming out when he was shoved away. “No matter my feelin’s towards ye Francis, I will always be a Yorkshireman at ‘eart.”

“Your wife is the only law, both natural and handed down by man, that has ever kept you honest.” 

“Better ‘alves are not called so fer no reason,” Blanky said sagely, rolling his eyes over to Francis before winking at him.

Francis did not react as it would only encourage him, and thought that he much preferred it when Thomas was not so comfortable with the ruinous nature of Francis’ life that he could chaff him about it. He had never received such treatment about Sophia, only some initial ribbing from Ross about how keen the lady had been to catch his attention, which in hindsight should have been an omen. He would not have taken it well anyway, not like Ross had always taken any teasing about Ann, and Francis was glad that he was content enough now that he could be amused by it.

“I must say the wind is fair pricking yer cheeks, Francis. London cannot ‘av…”

“Missing limb or no, I will knock you off this cliff, Thomas,” Francis warned, smiling to himself when Thomas cackled. 

James would find this funny, Francis thought to himself as he helped Thomas down a steep part of the cliff path that lead into the narrow, tidy streets of Whitby proper. He was glad he had not sent his letter yet, planning to grumpily tell James all this to make him smile, wherever in the world he might be when he received it. 

* ***** *

  
  


Francis’ stay in Florence had been as pleasant as he remembered it being seven years ago. The elegant old city still as perfectly beautiful to look at as it was to be in; every building a work of art, and every one containing some ancient and superbly crafted work of a master that impressed Francis as much as any sweeping aurora or towering iceberg ever had. 

James would enjoy it all, Francis was sure of it. He would no doubt know every myth and tale shown in the works, and if he did not he would create something just outlandish enough to be believable. The weather would suit James (he wore sunshine very well), he would enjoy the chance to improve his Italian, and as Tuscany had a more lax view on sodomy than England it would be nice to be in a place where they might be less on their guard.

Three letters past James had mentioned the fleet hoped to be at Naples in late April, and his last one expressed such a hope that Francis would also find himself in that city during that time that he tore himself from Florence. 

The journey to Livorno was quite easy, as was the two day trip in a tidy little sloop down the flat Italian coast, the squat form of mount Vesuvius clear against the blue sky before the ancient sprawl of Naples came into view.

They were held out at sea by two of the fine ships of the Mediterranean fleet tacking south out of port, masts dotted with topmen seeing to those sails pulled taut by the brisk easterly wind. Francis watched them pass, distant remembrances coming to him of when he had been a boy standing on a dock looking up at the forest of sails in port and feeling a sense of awe that a life at sea, living upon those great ships, had almost stripped him of.

When they finally slipped into the Port of Naples and he disembarked onto the long, curving harbour that was as crowded and fetid as any were when a great fleet docked, Francis had, with some surprise and delight, been caught by Mr Peglar. The limp he had developed from his missing toes had not quite evened out yet, but he was pink faced and bright eyed, his smile warm and sincere when he had pulled the cap off his tousled hair to greet Francis. He had been swapped onto the _Hibernia_ in the usual shifting of crews that came with a new captain (which was no surprise to Francis as James had brought Mr Bridgens with him as steward once again) and had been as pleased to report on James’ health and good command as he had been to see Francis.

Mr Peglar had taken him to a second lieutenant Glendinning, a willowy man who looked to be far older than he was. At first he had been irritated to be disturbed in his work of loading barrels of fresh water, then was startled into politeness once he realised who Francis was. He informed Francis that James was in attendance (unsurprisingly) to the Neapolitan queen at the palace which overlooked the port from the north, and the lieutenant promised he would get word to him about where Francis was staying and such. 

  
  


His lodgings were in a tall, well kept, flat faced building set on a street up behind the palace, which, like most grand old Italian houses, was arranged around a courtyard where the staff and other workers went about their business. Francis’ rooms had the lofty ceilings usual of Italian architecture and were tastefully furnished, the floor made up of beautifully painted floral tiles that matched the blankets on the bed and the wooden screen which stood before the dressing/valets room. Beneath the wide window that overlooked the courtyard was a elegantly carved table with low chairs facing one another, set near enough to the slim bookcase to be a pleasant place to read or take coffee.

This was where Francis dropped his travel weary body, glad for a moment alone and the pitcher of cool water the maid brought, enjoying the warm breeze shifting through the shaded window as the afternoon heat turned close and humid. He had let the sound of the locals going about their business below, and a clear, distant voice singing a pretty Italian song almost lull him into a doze when the rattle and clatter of a carriage and the excited talk it brought with it jerked him back into bleary wakefulness. He frowned at the window before raising himself up just enough to look down out of it, scrambling to his feet when he caught the flash of two sets of gold braid stepping through the carved front door of the building.

He had not expected word to be taken to James while he was _at the palace_ , nor for Admiral Parker to come with him if he were to visit. Francis allowed himself an ounce of trepidation, glad he had the chance to neaten his hair and pull his shoes back on before a polite knock came at the door, the maid calling out the names of his guests, and then James was there.

Standing in the doorway he looked broader and taller than Francis remembered, his hair slightly shorter and the threads of silver more apparent than Francis was sure they had been. He had the soft golden touch of the sun on his skin, a flush of heat on his cheeks, and would have been the immaculate, perfectly poised officer that James always was in his gold draped dress uniform with sword at his hip, if not for the warmth of his expression as his eyes flicked rapidly over Francis. 

“My dear, dear friend,” James said, his voice perfectly resonant yet clipped for command, lacking the lightness Francis was used to having directed towards him. Even so, James forgot himself and reached out to take Francis’ hand in both of his before he had crossed the threshold, the delicate golden fringe on his epaulettes shivering as he shook Francis’ hand firmly, thumb pressing into his palm. “I say it is good to see you again, old boy.”

“As it is you, James,” Francis finally found his voice to say, squeezing James’ rough hand before moving back to let him duck through the door. 

James’ expression slipped into something more controlled and courteous as he did so, the shift in manner serving to remind Francis of the admiral who was standing in the hallway. 

“Sir William, might I introduce my dearest friend Sir Francis Crozier,” James said smoothly, gripping the hilt of his sword to hold it steady as he stepped aside to allow the admiral to stride forward and shake Francis’ hand vigorously. 

He was shorter than Francis, with a head of wavy grey hair and a robust, weathered face that matched a deep, gruff voice that came right out from the barrel chest. “Very pleased to meet you sir.”

“As am I, Sir William.”

“Heard a great many things about you from Fitzjames here,” Admiral Parker said with a nod to James. “Read all about that damned ordeal at the pole also. Damned tragedy. Awful stuff. Did well to get them out, I say.”

“We had luck, and both the skill and determination of the men on our side. They were a fine crew.” James had given Francis those words, a script if you will, to repeat when he was faced with these situations where there was nothing he could say about the horrors they faced, and he was aware of James glancing at him as Parker nodded sagely. “It was no more than my duty as a captain.”

“Indeed, indeed. I also heard tell about the rations. I say again, damned tragedy. Can’t expect anything else from the bloody Admiralty, can you eh? ”

“They never cease to surprise me,” Francis said with maybe too much candour and Admiral Parker gave a rumble of a laugh.

“Quite right. Now, I shan’t make you both stand about on ceremony too long. Felt it was only right to show m’ face to a man of your distinction, and personally invite you to dine upon _Hibernia_ tonight. Got fresh stocks in, should be a fine meal.”

“Thank you, Sir Wiliam, I would be honoured.”

“Good, good. I’ll leave you Fitzjames, he can bring you on board. Until this evening, gentlemen.”

On instinct they stepped back as if they had been dismissed. Parker nodded to them both before striding out into the brightly lit hallway, booming voice instructing the maid to show him out as James carefully shut the door behind him.

Francis had not expected that they would throw themselves at one another once alone. Truth be told, he had not expected to see James at all today, and they stood looking at one another a little awkwardly before James reached out to touch Francis’ arm, moving in close to give Francis a soft, undemanding kiss.

He smelt of clean sweat and the heat of the day, Francis catching the faint whisper of lavender as they swayed in close. James’ grip was hot and heavy on Francis’ elbow but he did not hold him close, Francis resting his hand on James’ waist when they swayed apart. 

“Hello,” James breathed.

“Hello,” Francis returned, “I did not expect you to come here direct from the palace.”

“How could I fail to,” James grinned, then stepped smartly away, tucking his hands into the small of his back. “It was all we could do to keep Crown Prince _Francis_ from hearing about your arrival, or he might have sent for you at once and I knew how you would hate that.”

“I take it he has read of our exploits?”

"I almost wish you had been summoned, Francis,” James said as he turned and began to walk about the rooms like a captain during inspection. “You would have been most amused to see me being all but ordered to tell stories."

“That is the prerogative of royalty.”

“Oh we have been to Buckingham Palace twice, old boy!” James declared, and Francis blinked at being called _old boy_ by James of all people. “It is not as if we are at the beck and call of Queen Victoria.”

“Thank goodness she took less of an interest in our expedition than _Crown Prince_ Francis.”

James smiled neatly. "Sir Francis _is_ far better a title,” he said as he came to a stop by the window. His posture was perfectly correct if somewhat hesitant, as if refusing to shake off the comportment he would expect of himself as a flag captain in favour of the carefree ease he had in Francis’ company. 

The standoffishness stung, Francis would not deny that, even though he tried to take it well. James was dutiful if he was anything, and Francis knew he would not easily allow himself any slips or distractions while he held that carefully constructed person of Captain Sir James Fitzjames about him.

“I cannot help but agree,” Francis said archly, looking over James’ immaculate uniform and the perfectly tied stock about his neck, noting the faint darkness under his eyes. “How are you finding wearing the uniform all day in this burgeoning heat?”

“To think I once spent three years in the Ottoman east, and now Naples in April is warm enough to make one quite weary,” James huffed, relaxing just enough that Francis did not feel as if he were standing upon a quarterdeck. “I knew I was not as fit as I once was, but this posting has rather shown it.”

James had been so sprightly and bright at home that Francis had not thought about how the demands of the position might be a strain on him, and the disappointment he had been feeling at James’ lack of warmth was firmly pushed aside as he moved closer to him. “You are allowed to sit down, James, and… take off your damned coat and be comfortable a while, for Christ’s sake.”

James nodded absently, beginning to undo the polished buttons on his coat as he moved towards the seat Francis had vacated, then stopped abruptly. “Might I use your wash basin?”

“Of course, there is one behind that screen in the valet’s room.”

He expected a knowing look and for James to make a comment or two about gentlemen and their ‘valets’ travelling in Italy, but none came. Francis resigned himself to the awkwardness, noting the irony that _he_ was the one having to be patient with it in another, and went to take James’ sword belt and then help him tug his heavy uniform coat down his arms, the silk lining sticking to the sweat damp linen of his sleeves. James sighed once free of it, shaking out his left arm as he gave Francis a nod of thanks, the motion of rolling out his shoulders un-sticking his shirt from his back as he slipped behind the screen.

Francis shook the coat out of habit, wincing when the medals pinned to it jangled against one another, and took great care to lay it down neatly upon the bed so it would not crease. The sound of water sloshing against porcelain was loud in the room, and Francis made himself concentrate on arranging the delicate fringe of James’ epaulettes so they would not become tangled, allowing himself to press his hand to the sturdy wool that was hot from James’ body. 

Francis moved quickly away once that was done, taking any book from the shelves as he dropped into his chair again, only making about a paragraph before giving up and tucking his fingers into his pocket to feel the engraving on the lid of the watch. He was too aware of James and that faint, distracted humming of his to divert himself, too aware of how familiar and homely this moment should be while not being those things at all.

He had thought of James every day these past months, felt the lack of him in the strangest moments, had even allowed a touch of melancholy once or twice, but he had not felt an ache for him as he did now. James was right there but also hidden away, both physically by the screen and metaphorically; an image of how he held himself in company, not how he was with Francis. James was pleased to see him, Francis knew that, and had expressed his desire for Francis to meet him in Naples quite strongly, but he could not help wondering if James was regretting it now.

It was one thing for officers of means to have their wives or mistresses meet then in Naples, it was another, despite how often it might have occurred over the years, for a male lover to be awaiting the flag captain, and James' sense of duty would be most conscious of it.

Francis almost blushed to think it, then did just that when James stepped abruptly back into the main room in his shirtsleeves.

James threw his waistcoat down next to his uniform coat, dropping his cravat down on top of it as he moved his hair off of his bright scrubbed face with the back of his hand. He placed his fist upon his hip as he turned on his heels to face Francis, who found himself caught by the sight of James with his half undone shirt still tucked neatly into his trousers, a lock of hair falling against his cheek and that old Claddagh still hanging safely around his neck.

He looked like a handsome rogue from a scandalous painting or illustration, and Francis shook himself out of that nonsense train of thought as he poured James a glass of water and held it out to him.

James drunk deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing smoothly with every swallow. He let the glass dangle from his fingertips once he had drained it and took a deep breath, chest pressing against his braces, before letting it out with a sigh. "Thank you."

“Of course,” Francis replied.

“I feel less as if I am about to be strangled by myself,” James explained as he sat opposite Francis. He straightened his legs briefly, then seemed to remember that he had the freedom to link his fingers together above his head and arch in to a stretch if he wished to.

“You look less like it also,” Francis observed drily, James slanting him a look before smiling more like himself, touching the flash of gold revealed by his open collar. 

“I’ll have you know the Neapolitans think us English officers make a very pretty sight.”

Francis thought James was a pretty sight now, even if he was holding himself a little stiffly, his long, faintly tanned fingers moving the Claddagh slowly from side to side on the fine gold chain about his pale neck like a thoughtless habit. Like a comfort. 

Francis glanced up when he caught himself staring, looking away when he met James’ eyes that were watching him right back. He took the watch from his pocket and set it down so carefully on the table that it barely made a noise, unsure if he should give it back now or when in England. “I kept it well wound, and wore it every day.”

"You did?”

“Of course.”

James ran the ring one way along its chain until it was almost at his shoulder before moving it back the other way until his elbow hit the arm of the chair, looking at his own watch as if he needed permission to touch it. “I thought that you might think it was a foolish idea eventually, the winding, or would find the watch too showy.”

“Not at all,” Francis said gently, holding his hand out to James and found it being held before he had the chance to fear it might not be. “Not one bit. I was glad of it James, every one of your letters was a delight, but it was good to have something of you to hold when I thought of you.”

James nodded slowly, fingers creeping up under Francis cuff to tap on the inside of his wrist. “I thought of you often enough when the others were off whoring in port. I did not forget you once.”

“Well, I cannot say that…” Francis took in the playful quirk of James’ eyebrows and groaned. “ _Oh_ is that what you meant? I thought you were being sincere, and you were simply being lewd.”

James grinned, a glint in his eye as he crossed his legs with the careful nonchalance he usually reserved for wardrooms. “Sincere and lewd also.”

Francis shook his head, glancing down at the Claddagh which now rested on the slip of James’ chest revealed by his undone collar. “Blanky managed to wait a whole day before mocking me about your pocket watch.”

“He is a good friend,” James confirmed. “And I hope a good distraction from Ireland. I could feel the tension in your letters and…”

“He was,” Francis cut him off, not wishing to speak of it. “Thomas is large enough a character to distract from my family, and from you being so far away.”

“I…” James started, then looked away, shifting again as his posture tightened a little. “I know you will understand how the ship and duty comes first. And I hope… if it were not the flagship I commanded I would have allowed myself to think on you far more than I did already. Do not think it is from lack of caring…"

"I do not. The service has a greater claim on you at the moment.”

" _Francis_."

"It does. It is how things are."

“Even so…” James’ expression pinched, tapping his foot once against the tiled floor. “Whenever I told a story that involved you, or I could remember your reaction to it, I would feel surpassingly lonely. And be - uh. And realise how lonely I had been for most of my life," James said quickly, flexing his fingers when Francis tried to squeeze them. "And then… ah, well. I have duties still to attend to, even if this afternoon is a light, very pleasant distraction," he turned fully, taking Francis’ hand in both of his again, eyes bright and intent. “How are you to journey home?”

“By ship I imagine.”

"Do come back as a passenger on _Hibernia_. We sail from here back to Portsmouth to pay off the crew."

"It is never easy for a captain to be a passenger, James."

"My guest then,” James tossed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “The honoured guest of the captain."

Francis had not always been in command when aboard ship, but over these past months he had been aware of his place as a retired old sea captain. Aboard passenger ships he had not felt it so keenly, but aboard a fine ship of the line, with James needfully distant, he did not know how melancholy that might make him.

Francis looked down at the closed book in his lap, feeling how sweaty their clasped hands were becoming and how uncomfortably warm James was, but did not move away. He had longed for James’ company and presence these past months, but Francis knew full well how one day, or even one single hour delay in their rescue might have taken James from him forever, leaving Francis to a life of hollow regrets. His pride was nothing in the face of that.

Lady Ann had been right; it was the life, but that did not mean the sacrifices made were not felt. James had always been set for success in the Navy, that had been clear from the first time Francis had heard James Ross speak of that brilliant young gunnery lieutenant the Admiralty was denying him. James’ potential and his skill as an officer would take him away from Francis for periods of time, and he would make peace with that, even when age started to creep up on him. He had friends aplenty, and scientific works he could do, and counted the time apart as a small price to pay to have James’ foot hooked around his ankle and his too hot hand in his.

“Well, I suppose the flagship is as good a vessel as any to journey home on,” Francis sighed, trying not to smile. “Although I have not missed sleeping in a cot.”

“It will only be two weeks with fair weather. I shall like having you on board, it will be most congenial,” James murmured, blushing faintly. “I want - it is childish I suppose, but I would like you to see me at my duty. And doing it well.”

“I saw you at your duty in the Arctic,” Francis said carefully. “But I may not have always been in a sober enough condition to appreciate it.”

The smile James gave him was somewhat tight. “And when you were, I was not very well. And things were not very - anyway, let us not speak of that now. Us sailors must make the most of what we can get, must we not?”

“Indeed,” Francis smiled, saw James’ widen, and then blushed. “I hope that did not mean going to bed because I am sadly weary.”

“As am I, good Lord,” James sighed. “Admirals are just as exhausting as the whole crew combined. I do not know how some captains have the energy to carouse. No, tell me about your travels while I have been gone.”

“I have told you them all in my letters.”

“I know.” James propped his chin up on his hand. “Yet I would like for you to tell me again yourself. I have heard far too much of my own voice these past months, and so little of yours.”

* ***** *

“James!” Francis shouted down the stairs.

“Yes,” came the muffled reply.

“Will you unpack your things or shall I? As I have already done my own?”

“Say again?”

Francis made to shout again then sighed, muttering to himself as he went to the top of the stairs to call down to the study. “Will you unpack or should I do it?”

“Oh, you do it would you?" James called. "Still drowning in letters down here, damned lot of...” his voice faded into distracted muttering before shouting a little too loudly, "I'll give you a kiss if you do."

"And here I was doing it out of the kindness of my heart," Francis said to himself, placing James’ sturdy cherry wood sea chest on top of his trunk of civilian clothes that had been stored for the duration of his posting, and carefully pulled them across the landing.

They had been looking to take rooms together on their return, not wishing to use any more of the Coningham's generosity than they already had, but Wiliam was a determined man, and his wishes to see to the care of his brother would not be denied. James and Francis had both gone to Brighton once _Hibernia_ had been paid and spent nearly a month there not doing much of anything before London called. They had barely made plans to leave before the keys to the Regent’s Park house had been given to James without toleration of argument. 

Apart from the family house in Banbridge and the Ross' country home Francis had never lived in a place more than once. It was a happy sort of peculiar to come back to this place that was so fond and familiar, and unfooting that his and James' old habits and ways with one another had not yet settled back to how they had been. Things were not awkward, yet there was still that line of propriety around James that had not yet faded despite his time on shore.

(The journey home aboard _Hibernia_ had been a pleasant affair. The Mediterranean had been calm if the sea-lanes crowded, the crew well trained and merry in that way men were when they had a good captain, and Admiral Parker was a gruff man who was never short on good humour, considered conversation, nor praise for James' competence. Francis had not minded that James held himself at a friendly distance for the duration, not even when they were alone in the well appointed and spacious - if low ceilinged - captain’s cabin that opened onto the busy weather deck; but when James had put on that affected air of an _Officer_ at the Admiral's table or up on the quarterdeck it had irritated Francis almost as much as it had in the first years of the Expedition.)

James’ bedroom was agreeably un-stuffy thanks to the cracked open windows, the curtains shifting in the slow moving summer breeze coming off Regent's Park. Francis left James' sea chest at the foot of his bed for him to see to, and flipped open the lid of James' trunk of civilian belongings. He stood for a moment with his hands on his hips looking down at the neatly folded waistcoats beneath a thin layer of packing paper, thinking on how that jest he had made last October about being James’ patient, dutiful ‘wife’ awaiting his return from sea was now ringing with irony as he bent to unfold James’ clothes and set them out on the bed to uncrease. 

He paused for a moment when he came to the purple silk skirts and bodice packed safely away under James’ frockcoats. He admired their water-like softness, remembering how it felt when James’ warm body gave them shape and movement, then shoved the packing paper back on top of the dresses. It was one thing to marvel at the gowns when James wore them, it was another entirely to paw at one like a letch when the man himself was one set of stairs away.

London in June felt nearly as hot as Naples had been in April, and it made unpacking their belongings warm enough work that Francis had started out in his shirtsleeves, undoing a few buttons on his waistcoat and tucking his cravat into his pocket alongside James’ watch as he went. Daisy was safely down in the kitchen with the new scullery maid setting things to rights, so Francis felt it was safe enough to venture down to the study in such a state to let James know that he was going to flop out in the drawing room.

The surface of the tasteful mahogany desk that dominated the room was covered in neat stacks of all the letters and notes and calling cards that James had neglected while at the Coningham’s or had arrived since they had been back in London. He was sitting upright in the chair as if still wearing the expertly starched collar of his captain’s uniform, shoulders set like they were bearing the weight of more than just heavy gold epaulettes. Francis felt like he should come to attention to address him, so blatant was James’ inadvertent authority, instead settling for knocking on the door frame to get his attention. 

James glanced up, shrewd gaze taking Francis in as if he were about to give him duty for his collar and undone buttons. Francis raised an eyebrow at him, glad his face was already flushed so James’ scrutiny would not bring out his blotchy blush.

James gentled a little, poise tipping more towards his own form of insouciance as he set down the letter in his hands. They had not been intimate in a good while, but Francis knew the look in James’ eyes well, just as he knew that it being the middle of the afternoon had never been a hindrance to him.

“Will you come here, Francis?” James all but demanded, chair clunking against the floor as he moved back from the desk.

Francis was unsure what to do for a moment, thinking that he would much prefer being saved the embarrassment of responding to being summoned in such a way as he straightened from leaning on the door frame. 

It was then that there came the din of cab pulling up on the street two storeys below the open window, followed by a swell of talking with one familiar deep voice clear over it all.

“Oh good lord!” James glanced at the clock atop the fireplace, then pulled out one of the calling cards from the pile as he jumped to his feet. “It’s Dundy and his _fiancee!_ Bugger!”

* ***** *

Luckily Daisy was a far better maid than either he or James deserved. One of the firsts things she had done on coming to the house was to open the front parlour back up ready to receive those guests that should be expected after being so long from London.

"I am sorry for the late notice of company," Francis whispered to her once she had collected all bonnets and hats and parasols, smoothing a hand over his hair that must be a fright after his hurry to redress.

"It's no mind, sir," she said quietly. "I am prepared for all but Lady Franklin, sir - " she glanced up at Francis and they shared a moment of great relief. She then said something about tea and toast that Francis told her to carry on with as James swept over to be introduced to Le Vesconte’s bride to be.

Miss Charlotte Campbell was a woman of no remarkable height, with her thick auburn hair pulled back from her square face in twists. Her pale green bell sleeved dress was slightly crumpled by the carriage ride but very fine otherwise, sporting a wide lace collar held in place by a heavy oval brooch at her throat. She was not talkative but neither was she meek, a smile pulling at her mouth whenever she looked up at Henry who was trying not to beam at everyone, something wary about him that Francis put down to being engaged.

James was who the lady had been brought to meet, so Francis, who was fully aware that he was no good at the polite talk that would be expected on such a visit, had been planning on politely excusing himself. He had almost managed it while James was distracted, but Henry caught him and insisted he stay. “You are important to that dear old bird, so you must remain,” he spoke in an undertone, nodding to James who was charming Miss Campbell and her sister Mrs Brett as he showed them the fine paintings that decorated the hallway. “I say, if one cannot introduce one's future wife to the man who saved one's life then what _can_ one do, eh?”

So here he was in the rarely used front parlour with the rather unpleasant (in his opinion) yellow patterned wallpaper, aware as ever of his stilted manner while James directed the fashionable conversation around him. Francis had tried not to be, but had ended up sitting with Mrs Brett at her insistence; a woman who’s fussy blue dress, covered in lace and bows, and the frilly ribbons set in her elaborately styled straw blonde hair matched all her exaggerated airs-and-graces. 

“It is a good thing that they are not excessively in love now,” she said in an undertone to Francis for some reason. “You see many starry eyed couples come under strain when the level ground of marriage comes to them. My sister and the commander are sensible with it, which is so very much like my dear sister,” she looked to Francis who saved himself from having to say anything by sipping his tea. “Especially for sailors I imagine,” she said with a critical glance over at Henry who was looking pleased when Miss Campbell laughed at something James was saying to her. “Others have such a critical opinion of the rough ways and behaviours that are known to be displayed when _not in home port_. Not I of course,” she said earnestly enough to make it clear that she was in fact not being earnest at all, lace gloved hand laying daintily against her chest. “It is the loneliness that would worry me so, sir. I should be a horrid mess if my own dear Mr Brett were away so often. I should be so terribly lonely and bereft at all hours, never knowing a moments rest. But I feel a certain type of woman ties herself to a sailor. One with rather a streak of impetuous independence, and a radical sort of strong will.”

She was speaking loudly enough that the couple must be able to hear her. Francis was surprised that such a woman would be so demonstratively rude, but then again families could become quite demonstrative when it came to daughters marrying naval officers. It irritated him that he was being used to voice all her nicely put judgements on sailors and about Henry, who was a gentle soul and James’ great friend, and it irritated him that she would put her sister in such an embarrassing situation in front of her intended's friends. 

“I think so, yes,” Francis heard himself saying, a distant part of his mind demanding to know what he thought he was doing as he continued speaking. "My opinion is only my own and based on what I have seen over my years, but if there is a solid base of affection, of understanding and trust in the other, as I believe is between Miss Campbell and Commander Le Vesconte, then all will be well. It is so for my wedded acquaintances, whose affection and tenderness do not lessen because of distance. Many ladies do not wish for the life of a sailors wife, that is well, but it is not only bearing up nobly under the weight of a lonely existence, as it is often thought to be. Happiness may depend on some patience, but that is the same for all things, and I hope Sir James and the commander himself will show you that not all sailors are uncouth, uncultured men. That..."

It was then that he realised he had the attention of the whole room. He shifted uncomfortably, the faint creak of the yellow upholstered settee only making his sudden embarrassment worse. What the bloody hell did he know? He was unmarried and unconnected, and if asked he could hardly cite the past months with James away as reason for his certainty, nor why the wise words of Lady Ann Ross or Mr and Mrs Blanky of Whitby should have resonated with him so.

James was also smiling at him in such a way that Francis wanted to snap at him for worsening his embarrassment.

"Sir Francis," Mrs Brett began. "I did not realise you were..."

"You see, my dear Charlotte, the fabled wisdom of a sailor before you," Henry spoke over her as he turned to Miss Campbell, tone amiable and bright. "You become familiar with more than just the tides, meeting all the sorts that you do. So I say, hear hear, and I hope I shall be so wise one day."

"It takes wisdom to recognise wisdom, I think," Miss Campbell put as she lay a dainty gloved hand on Henry's arm, causing him to flush. She turned her attention to Francis, inclining her head to as if in thanks as she cut her sister off when she tried to speak again. "I am glad for your blessing sir, thank you."

"And I say hear hear to that," James announced as he moved to the edge of his seat so he could lean over and boldly clap Francis on the leg. "A heart must be already fond for absence to make it grow fonder," he said softly, then picked up his tea cup and raised it to all sat in that bright, and slightly too warm, parlour. "Alas all we have is tea, which is a heresy for a sailor to make a toast with, but we shall endeavour all the same! To the fondness and happiness of you two fine people."

Miss Campbell did not blush at the attention, gently holding her tea cup to James before knocking it playfully against Henry's who was gazing at her with enough adoration to make Francis smile.

* ***** *

“You spoke very sweetly this afternoon.”

“I did? I am sure I have never spoken sweetly.”

“You do and you did,” James said firmly, his seated reflection in the dressing table mirror wincing when the tortoiseshell brush in Francis’ hand found a tangle. He pressed his hand to the spot where James’ scalp had been pulled, ducking his head slightly to meet James’ eyes that were looking up at him out of the oval mirror. “It meant a great deal to Dundy you know. He told me how Mrs Brett thinks he should retire from the Navy when he marries, and thinks it rather _insistently_. Of course I wrote to him in support of his wishes to remain, and Miss Campbell supports this also…”

“She would not wish to have him home?” Francis inquired lightly. He felt the old hurts of Sophia's rejections only by their absence; they no longer had any purchase on him as Francis now understood, in a way she had known better than he at the time, that he could not have given up the sea for Sophia and not resented her for it. And now, seven years after that heartbreak, he found himself on the beach and content to be so.

James reached behind himself lay his hand on Francis thigh. “I fear this may have strayed into sensitive territory for you,” he said softly, thumb making comforting sweeps over the material of Francis' trousers. 

“I would not say so,” Francis said with a smile. He looked into the mirror to meet James’ eyes which were lit by the honied golden candlelight that was casting delightful shadows over the curve of his collarbones, revealed by the scoop neck of the white muslin garment he had on. Francis was not sure what it was called as he did not know a great deal about all the layers of ladies clothing, but neither was he concerned with finding out when it showed off the slope of James’ shoulders so very well. “In fact hardly at all.”

James’ reflection had a coy look in its eye as he tapped the back of Francis’ leg once gently before letting his hands fall back into his lap. “No, Miss Campbell is ‘marrying all Henry is’ apparently, which means a sailor also. Her strength of will is good - I never saw Dundy taking a wholly obedient wife, be far too dull for him... I am not sure if it makes her a botanist or some other -ist, but she has a keen interest in trees you know.”

“Oddly suited to a sailor then.”

“Quite."

They fell into a comfortable silence, just the tick of James' watch set on his dressing table and the dull sound of the brush smoothing through James' hair which fell into loose, soft waves with every pass. It was something Francis used to do for his favourite sister when he was small, run her fine silver brush through her long red hair that she would let fall over the back of a chair for him to reach. The softness and the scent of rosemary and the easy, repetitive motions were an odd distraction for a young boy, but one he had found comforting nonetheless. 

Doing this for James was not the same, as he was very much _not_ Francis’ dear departed sister, but on the rare occasions Francis did it was pleasant and restful for them both, sometimes even sending James to sleep. This evening his eyes were on Francis still, and in a fit of rare playfulness Francis found himself curling a lock of James’ hair around his fingers before letting it drop against his cheek with a flourish. 

“I can always banish you from this,” James threatened even as he laughed. “A man’s hair is serious business you know.”

“I know,” Francis smiled, laying his hand on James’ shoulder as he leant past him to set the brush down on the polished surface of his dressing table. He could feel the fine gold chain beneath his thumb and pressed it down into James’ skin, meeting his eyes in the mirror as he bent kiss to James’ neck, then his cheek. 

James twisted, cupping Francis’ cheek as he kissed him properly once, twice, then he stood, backing Francis up a step as he gave him an insistent kiss. Francis gripped his arm, his other hand finding its way to James’ waist to pull him tight against him when he took another step back. 

Fingers fumbled over one another as they both tried to get Francis’ buttons undone, laughter making them pull apart.

“Aren’t we both over eager,” James grinned, dropping his head to nip kisses down Francis’ neck. His hand found its way up under Francis’ waistcoat and James spread his fingers against Francis' lower back, smoothing his touch over Francis’ hip and into the front of his trousers. 

Francis gasped sharply, finding his senses suddenly full of the sweet floral smell of James' hair and the warmth and strength of his long body that was curled around his own. An ache started in up in Francis' chest, right deep down under his breast bone, and as he trailed his fingers up over James' hip he breathed, “I missed you,” into his soft hair.

James cocked his head back to look at him, confusion giving way to realisation, and then faint embarrassment. His hands flexed as he pressed a kiss to the edge of Francis mouth, stepping back until he bumped into the side of the bed. “I - “ he began as he divested Francis of his waistcoat. “I love you, and I longed for you.”

“James…”

“Come,” James breathed, kissing Francis once more before dropping down onto the bed, white muslin pooling around his hips and showing off his pale thighs as he drew his legs up to set his heels on the edge of the mattress. The elegant muscles in James' legs flexed as he pushed himself back into the middle of the bed to lay propped up on his elbows, a capped sleeve slipping off his shoulder as he tossed his hair from his face. 

Knowing James had purposefully arranged himself just so did nothing to diminish the sight or the effect it had on the pulse of Francis' desire. He raised an eyebrow at James who gave him a coquettish look in return, stretching out a leg to press his toes to Francis’ thigh. “Will you come here, Francis?”

He laid down next to James after kicking off his trousers and shoes. James spat into his hand once Francis had settled, making him gasp loudly when he took Francis' prick in hand and stroked his spit all over it. 

"I will not last all that long,” Francis admitted, feeling himself cringe as he reached out to grasp James’ arm. “If you want to do anything more than this now."

“I could not give a damn," James proclaimed, even as he let Francis go. “I will have more than enough time to give myself jaw ache on you later.”

“ _James_ ,” Francis blushed, rebuke lost when James pulled away and sat up just enough to strip, throwing the bundle of white muslin off the bed before dropping back down onto his side. 

James was all lean muscle under soft, creamy skin, the strength across his arms and chest trailing down to a neat middle that carried just a hint of softness that was wholly absent from his long, shapely legs that brushed against Francis’ own as he moved close. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” Francis scoffed, running his hand up James’ side to his ribs then down the elegant sweep of his spine, fingers tripping over the familiar scars on his back. “Be a damned fool if I did.”

James blushed, a faint pink on his tanned cheeks, and slipped his arm around Francis to kiss him, fingers slipping into his hair as his other hand wormed between them to catch the tails of Francis’ shirt. 

“Not to remove it,” James whispered against his lips. “Just to…”

“It’s all right if you want to,” Francis grunted, nosing back in for a kiss after they both managed to haul his shirt off.

James wrapped his arm around Francis and pulled him close, heated skin pressing against heated skin, James' hot, hard prick bumping against Francis' stomach while his own slid against James' hip.

"Will you have me?" James asked between kisses, hand running freely over Francis' back.

“I told you I would not last, it has been a good while."

“Good, because I have no idea where the grease is,” James said lightly, slinging his leg over Francis' hip as he rolled his cock against Francis' stomach.

“Christ,” Francis muttered, resting his forehead against James' chest. 

The unexpected weight of James' rough palm pressing against his waist caused Francis to start, but instead of taking away his hand James only traced nonsense patterns with his fingertips until Francis raised his head to look at him. 

“Only if you wish to,” he said, treacle dark eyes gazing at Francis earnestly, his hair already a mess. “My longing for closeness may not be the same as yours, and I would not force you.”

Francis knew how liberally James tended to use oils and greases and the like both for himself and when Francis had him bugger him, and the spit James had rubbed onto his prick earlier was already drying out.

“Will it be all right without grease or what have you?”

“For this, yes,” James reassured with a smile, fingers trailing tenderly through Francis' hair to neaten it.

"I suppose I can manage it, then. Yes."

"Good,” James sighed, cupping Francis’ face and passing his thumb over his cheekbone before kissing him.

James settled onto his back, looking up at Francis from beneath the fan of his lashes as he sucked two fingers into his mouth to wet them. It was an obscene image, wonderfully so, and Francis felt even more heat pool heavily in his groin when James tipped his head back and reached between his legs to press those fingers into himself.

Francis ducked his head to kiss the tendons in James' throat that tensed and eased as he breathed steadily. He tried to be just the right amount of distracting as he ran his touch over so much smooth skin, fingers pressing to the numb scar on James’ ribs so he might feel the touch before sweeping over the dip of his waist.

James caught his hand when Francis finally reached the unmarred skin of James’ inner thigh, kissing the inside of Francis' wrist, the base of his thumb, and then the centre of Francis' palm before spitting on it; softening an action that Francis was frankly in no state to care about the coarseness of if he ever would have to begin with.

Francis spat into his own hand also, then again for luck. His aching prick twitched when he rubbed the wet onto it, pulling a grunt from him that had James reaching out to grab at his thigh and haul him close.

He knelt between James' legs, taking him by the waist and pulling his hips into his lap. James' eyes sparkled in delight, a whispered " _my word"_ slipping from his lips as he hooked his legs around Francis, reaching out to lay his fingers lightly on his arm when Francis moved the Claddagh from where it had fallen to sit in the hollow of James' throat.

Francis was aware that the way was not as easy as he was used to as he pushed as far into James as he dared, and was reassured somewhat by James groaning long and loud as he did so. He reached out for Francis, cupping the back of his neck to pull him down over him, and Francis had a care for both of their back’s as he planted his elbow on the bed to brace himself while he fucked into James with short, sharp, graceless strokes. He was made desperate by the tight heat of James' body, by the gasps and moans pushed out of him with every grunt of effort Francis made and the shaky inhale that followed. By his calloused fingers running all the way over Francis' bare back, one coming to rest between his shoulder blades while the other grabbed his arse and squeezed.

"A much needed liberty," James panted, wetting his lips as he flexed his hand. 

" _Hell_... " Francis muttered, feeling the out of use muscles in his back and legs begin to feel the strain. “James, might we move.”

“ _Move_ ,” James repeated dully, the words taking a second to stick, then he nodded, giving Francis a quick kiss before letting him pull away with.

He did not hurry Francis onto his back, but slung a long leg over his hips as soon as he might. James’s hair was a perfectly dishevelled mess, his cheeks flushed the same pink as his long neck and chest, the sheen of sweat on his skin catching the candlelight in a bronze glow, and Francis thought he was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Even when he spat into his hand again and reached behind himself to rub it into the head of Francis’ prick, smiling when it made Francis hiss. 

Francis grabbed on to James, one hand on his waist and while the squeezed his hip as James raised up just enough to press his cock back inside of him. He sunk down easily, stomach tensing as he did so, and Francis groaned when the curve of James’ backside touched his thighs, digging a heel into the bed when James began to rock his hips back onto Francis’ cock.

“ _Oh_ ,” James breathed, supporting himself with a hand on Francis’ chest as he fell into a shallow, wanton rhythm. The feeling of him, the solid weight and the heat and the clench of his body about him, and the sight of James taking his pleasure as he pleased, had Francis’ peak rushing up on him, and he let his hand drop from James’ hip, pulling a soft little sound from the man when Francis took his prick in hand.

The feeling of James' nails digging into his chest and the helpless noises he made as Francis fondled his cock - for he was assaulted by such a barrage of _need_ and syrupy pleasure that Francis would not dare claim that was frigging James - did not aid Francis' state, but he still lasted longer than he thought he might. James stroked his shoulders and face as he panted and groaned, making soothing noises even as he pushed his hips back onto Francis’ cock.

"It's all right."

"Fucking _hell_ James."

"It's all right, Christ Francis," James pressed his hand against Francis' shoulder as he dropped forward, and flattered Francis by reaching his paroxysm not a great deal of time after he reached his.

  
  


Their loud panting was the only sound for a while, the stillness in the wake of all that frantic activity eventually being broken when James turned his head to mouth at Francis’ neck.

“Are you well?” Francis whispered, smoothing his hand up and down James’ arm when pulled back enough to look Francis in the eye before nodding. 

He sat up to ease Francis’ cock from him, taking a moment on shaking thighs before he gingerly dropped down to flop out beside Francis. They lay staring at the ceiling a moment, thenn James struggled and squirmed until he was sat up on an elbow, raking his fingers through his hair to push it back off his flushed face as he smiled down at Francis. “God, I love you” he croaked, and bent over Francis to kiss him, slow and lazy. 

* ***** *

  
  


James was wide awake and sitting up in bed for two bells morning watch, the rosey golden glow of dawn coming in through the window lighting him up so softly Francis had to scrub at his bleary eyes.

"I did not mean to wake you," James said quietly, hand falling from fiddling with the chain about his neck to rest on Francis' forearm.

"No bother," Francis sighed, stretching his legs out beneath the blankets now that James was no longer tucked against him.

"The last bit of me still all at sea."

Francis hummed in reply, the sheets rustling as he shifted just enough to rest his cheek on the soft muslin covering James' hip. "Good."

Silence fell again, and Francis felt himself begin to drift off again when James spoke, voice still lowered in reverence to the morning.

"I know I have not been as warm as I wished to be, or as you deserved, for the past while," James admitted quietly, hand falling to rest on Francis' back. "I - it is no great difficulty to do my duty, or rather no more than I have already faced as a captain, but the image expected can be very wearing. Especially now that you have given me the affection and opportunity to - to breathe and be. Stepping behind those old constructs of mine for a dinner or ball or anything of the like is not the same as maintaining it aboard an Admiral's own flagship. I…"

"I understand, it is all right," Francis said gently, hefting himself up to sit against the pillows. "I am glad that once home _you_ have come back without too much of a struggle."

"Home," James repeated under his breath, reaching out to take Francis' hand in his. "You looked so delicious when you came into the study that it took all the fight out of Captain Sir James Fitzjames."

“Delicious?” Francis scoffed.

“I saw you standing there in such wanton disarray and wanted to get my mouth…”

“All right,” Francis huffed, making to lay down again. “Enough of that.”

"Do you not mean to thoroughly silence me, Francis?" 

"Surely a feat beyond the greatest men," Francis grumbled, which made James laugh. 

Francis settled back under the blankets, glanced up at James who was watching him still, the soft sunlight turning his eyes a ridiculously lovely shade of amber, then huffed as he rolled onto his side. 

“You are always _my_ Francis, if I might call you so,” James said quietly as he slipped down to tuck himself against Francis’ back, arm looping around his middle. “I admire that indefatigable quality about you, and how it had you back in my company before you had me. Which is peculiar and strange, but I am glad that we are back as we should be.”

Francis twisted to look at him over his shoulder. “Together?”

“I had worried that it was too early for such soppy sentiment, but yes. Together.”

“Good,” Francis grunted, leaning back just enough to kiss him. “Now go to back to sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for the Claddagh was first used in [ this ](https://aes-iii.tumblr.com/post/183313165306/heart-in-hand-blanky-fitzjames-750-because) and [ this ](https://aes-iii.tumblr.com/post/183339732511/but-which-hand-was-he-wearing-the-ring-on-and) ficlet, which were the first I read in this fandom and a direct inspiration, so go give them some love if you have not already.
> 
> Two of the visuals in this fic are inspired by [ this piece ](https://matt-j-freeman.tumblr.com/post/190410404302/so-i-saw-this-picture-of-an-outfit-that-i-also) and [ this work of ART ](https://pianodoesterror.tumblr.com/post/190825641030/matt-j-freeman-xmas-gift-for-pianodoesterror). 
> 
> And, I mention some of John Locke's philosophies because James' foster mother, Louisa Coningham, wrote a book about him! Go her. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading this series, or bits of it, even if you've just kudos'd and never commented, or just popped in. Your enjoyment means a lot.


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